


Mycroft

by themuller



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!Lestrade, Alpha!Mycroft, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bonding, D/s, Daddy Kink, Knotting, M/M, Omega Verse, Omega!John, Self-Harm, Sounding, daddy!lestrade, sub!Alpha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themuller/pseuds/themuller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft never wanted an Omega. When Sherlock falls, Mycroft does what needs to be done. But it comes at a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Be sure to check the tags.
> 
> Not beta’ed nor britpicked.
> 
> This can be read as a sequel to ‘The Omega’ or as a stand-alone.
> 
> Disclaimer: not mine.

Infuriating. This Omega had always been one of the most infuriating human beings Mycroft had met. And right now, right now, this Omega should be begging for his Alpha cock, writhing on the bed, covered in sweat.

Instead, instead he was standing in the middle of his bedroom, a display of the very quintessence of loneliness and misery. Slumped shoulders, head bowed. The scent giving away the traumatically broken bond. Somewhere in the back of Mycroft’s mind was a small, concerned voice. Easily ignored, since he had more pressing matters to attend to.

He had to put things right. Had to claim this Omega as his. Mate, mark, claim, and protect. Mycroft wanted the Omega to acknowledge him. To react to the presence of an aroused Alpha. He hadn’t even tried to undress, and Mycroft set out to rectify the situation. They were safe now. This was Mycroft’s townhouse, the bedroom door was closed and locked, and Mycroft’s minions had arranged that they would be undisturbed for the next days if need be. Not that Mycroft was concerned with arrangements or minions, all he cared about was to make sure his Omega was kept safe and alive. A disturbing thought crossed Mycroft’s mind, reminding him of the urgency of the situation. The broken bond. The Omega needed a new Alpha. As fast as possible.

He crossed the room, and started to undress the Omega. He stood still, let Mycroft turn and move his limbs as he needed to remove the jumper, shirt, trousers. He flinched when Mycroft tugged down his pants, and his arms reached up as if to push Mycroft away. He looked at Mycroft, but his eyes were unfocused, not recognising who or what was standing in front of him. His hands were pressed against Mycroft’s chest, powerless. With a broken sob, he let his arms fall limp beside his side.

“Sh, John,” Mycroft whispered softly, “don’t fight. You are safe now.”

Mycroft pulled him close, nuzzling his neck, licking a trail down towards the shoulder, biting lightly at the swollen gland at the base of the neck. When his tongue flicked over the skin, Mycroft growled. Anger. He could feel the raised skin from old scars, cuts, and bruises. Abuse, more than twenty years ago, visible, tangible, and so very wrong.

Holding him tightly, Mycroft lead him to the bed, where the Omega slumped down, immediately curling up into a fetal position. Mycroft quickly undressed and joined him, turning the Omega on to his back. Carefully, Mycroft nudged him into the middle of the bed, spreading his legs and settling himself between them. Almost breathless he took in the sight in front of him. The taut body, sweaty from the heat. The stretch marks from his pregnancies, proof of a very fertile Omega. Breed, Mycroft whispered, not heeding the panicky voice on the edge of his conscious mind. The dark blue eyes, unseeing but open, black pupils widening. Red, wet lips, slightly parted. Taking a deep, appreciative breath, Mycroft continued his exploration, kissing along the shoulder, sighing delightedly whenever he succeeded in eliciting any kind of response from the Omega.

Mycroft’s growing arousal added to the pheromones in the bedroom. He turned towards the hardening rosy nipples on the Omega’s chest, sucking and biting, until the Omega started writhing in the sheets, finally giving in to his body’s needs. With a smirk Mycroft slowly kissed a trail downward to the nest of curly, dark blond hair surrounding the Omega’s half hard cock.

“No,” it was a plea more than a demand, ending in a choked sob, and the writhing stopped abruptly.

Mycroft heard the sound, maybe even registered the word and its meaning, but his mind and body were unable to recognise anything but the pleading. With an unfaltering interest, he turned his attention toward the drooping member, pecking at the foreskin, tasting the fluids gathering at the head. He sucked gently, until he could feel the flesh hardening. He continued the fondling and was finally rewarded with a small whimper. Licking up from the base to the head, he then swallowed him down, sucking hard, slowly letting go, with just a hint of teeth to entice the Omega further.

With a satisfied hum Mycroft sat back and let his gaze wander over the writhing moaning body in front of him. His hands caressed the Omega’s thighs, trying to get eye contact but failed. The pupils were wide blown, the scent, every movement, every sign of arousal was present. The Omega’s body wanted this and yet it seemed as if his mind fought it every single step of the way. Something was off, but Mycroft couldn’t care less.

He let out a frustrated growl and turned the Omega over onto his knees. With one hand Mycroft pushed his shoulders down and the Omega was now presenting his slick hole for Mycroft’s intense scrutiny. Satisfied once again, Mycroft lapped at the thick liquid, sighing contently, engulfed by the sweet smell of a willing, needy body, pliantly waiting for him to initiate and finish the bonding. His tongue darted in and out of the Omega’s entrance, and the weeping pleas became a white noise, only egging Mycroft on. Every sense told him to take, to claim, to mate. The body before him was open, alluring, screaming at him, begging for his Alpha cock to fill it.

And his cock was hard, standing straight up, an angry dark red signalling Mycroft’s need to start the mating process. Pushing two, then three fingers into the Omega, feeling the welcoming heat and slickness, he finally grabbed the hips and pushed slowly, but continuously into the tight opening, eliciting small, painful cries from the Omega. The body was opening up beneath him, the cries only agitating him further. The slight feeling that something was off was overrun by the onslaught on Mycroft’s senses. Smell, touch, taste. He was inside an Omega, his Omega.

For the first time in his life he experienced an Omega in heat, and it was overwhelming. His body knew what it wanted, what it needed. And it took. Pounding into the heat, the wet hole, his fingers digging deep into the hips of the Omega, Mycroft lost all sense of time and place. Faster and faster, deeper and harder he pushed his cock inside, the bodies slapping together, slick with sweat. When he felt his knot forming, his movements became increasingly erratic. He bent down, finding the bonding gland by instinct, the renewed reminder of other bonds before him only adding to his furious lust. The body of the Omega wasn’t fighting him any longer, it was pushing back against him, finding its own rhythm, begging to be filled by the Alpha riding it. One hand found its way to the Omega’s cock, now hard and leaking, his balls drawn up, so close, so very close to the climax.

When Mycroft bid down, drawing blood and sucking it in, he came inside the Omega, and his Omega came with a cry, a name, which Mycroft recognised.

“SHERLOCK!”

It came all came back to him within the blink of an eye.

The phone call from Hamish. Arriving at the scene. A frantic Miss Hooper on the verge of a breakdown trying to shield John from the bystanders and helpers.

The ride back to his townhouse. John sitting quietly, pliant, not responding. The smell of a distressed Omega filling the car. The scent of the impending bonding heat slowly pervading the confined room of the car.

Mycroft’s conscious effort to push away his own emotions, shock, grief, guilt.

Anger. Staying focussed on the anger.

Anger, because Sherlock made sure John would see him fall. Anger, because Mycroft knew he was the cause, however indirectly, having supplied Moriarty with the information he needed to set off the media on their hunt for Sherlock.

Anger, because Mycroft would need it to do what need to be done. Becoming the Alpha male who would claim and protect the Omega, to ensure a new bond. The tiniest of hope for John to survive.

“John,” Mycroft murmured terrified, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. ”

He tried to pull John up and turn his face toward him, his cock still firmly locked inside his new bondmate’s body. But John was boneless, unconscious. Mycroft laid him softly down on the duvet, snuggled closely, spooning him to wait for the deflating of his knot. All the while he continued to whisper into John’s ear, telling him that he was needed, that he couldn’t give up, that Mycroft would keep him safe. Safe and alive.

He couldn’t let his grief and guilt fester in his mind. Not yet. He had to fight for John’s life. Bring him back to consciousness before this turned into the dreaded coma of a broken bonded Omega.

As his knot deflated, he slowly slipped out of John. Carefully, he untangled himself and went to the bathroom to find a flannel, a bowl of hot water, and the first aid bag. He settled down beside John and started to clean him up. Stroking gently over the battered body, feeling a new wave of anger at the old scars, which he couldn’t help but examine once more, while he washed the body tenderly. He could feel the bond forming in his chest. Warmth spreading into every corner of his body. When he started to clean the fresh bitemark, John sighed deeply and stirred.

Mycroft had to bite back a cry of joy, when John opened his eyes and looked at him. It didn’t matter, that his eyes were dark with anger. He was back. For now.

With a sudden movement, John pushed himself away from Mycroft’s touch, looking around the room without recognising where he was.

“You’re safe, John,” Mycroft said, watching him intently.

John huffed.

“Safe? From what? Or who?” he asked defiantly. He looked down his naked, bruised body, then touched the bandaged bitemark with every sign of contempt.

“Whom,” Mycroft corrected, unthinkingly. He could feel his self control crumble. His own distress was pushing him to his limits.

“Yeah, like this is about grammar and spelling. Well, let me spell it out for you then: You. Raped. Me.”

Mycroft flinched. 

“I saved your life, John.”

“For now,” John scooted further back, putting a greater distance between him and Mycroft. 

He crawled out of the bed and hobbled towards his pile of clothes. 

“I’m going back to Baker Street.” 

“The bond needs to develop, John. If you go now -,” the look from John stopped any objections, Mycroft might have had.

“I’m going home to the kids, if it’s the last thing I‘ll ever do. And you are not going to stop me!”

With a small wince John pulled up his trousers, and put his clothes in order.

“If I should survive this, I’ll need you for getting through my next heat. Which probably will be my last,” John spoke matter of factly. “I’m not going to live with you. You are not my bondmate. You won’t tell the children what happened between us.” 

Mycroft looked down. John sighed, looking at the ceiling.

“Hamish and Sophie know,” it wasn’t a question.

“Sophie told me in no uncertain terms what she expected me to do,” Mycroft said quietly. 

“You could have asked me.”

“You were in no condition to give consent,” Mycroft didn’t look at John.

“Oh, and that makes it alright, then?” John had walked to the door, unlocking it. “Christ, Mycroft. Sophie and Hamish,” he shook his head, “they’re kids.”

“They need you, John. All four of them.”

John looked at him.

“No,” he said sadly, “they’re old enough to manage. Their uncle is rich and can provide for them. Keep them safe.”

John had opened the door, was looking at the floor. 

“They don’t need me,” he said, then he turned and walked slowly down the stairs.

The black car would take him back to Baker Street. And the driver would know to wait. Till it was time to take John to the hospital. 

Mycroft slumped down beside the bed. He had put on a dressing gown when he got up before. He pulled it tight around him. Protectively. Fumbling for his mobile, he finally broke. Trembling, tears streaming down his face, he was barely able to sent a text.

Please - mycroft


	2. Daddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'ed, not brit-picked.  
> Please read the tags.  
> This chapter is mostly PWP - you're warned.

 

Responsible. He was responsible. He should have prevented Sherlock’s death. Instead, he had contributed to it. He could hear their father’s sneer. Pathetic, weak. Mycroft was supposed to be head of the family. Not this sobbing, damaged, laughable excuse for an Alpha.

Responsible. Realization hit him. He had bonded with an Omega. A helpless, fragile, little creature. Broken bonded, and by all evidence prone to die, no matter how hard Mycroft would try to help him survive. Failure. Loneliness. The voices in his head were shouting at him, scolding, shaming, hating. His own voice leading this disharmonious choir, arrogant. Condescending. Defeated by an Omega. Bonded to an Omega. He could taste the bile in his mouth. Swallowed hard. Disgusted. Disgusting.

He didn’t hear the front door. The footsteps on the stairs, the opening of the bedroom door. The silence. The door closing, being locked. Didn’t notice the scrutinising look, the new Alpha pheromones slowly mingling with the other scents in the room.

“Tut, tut.”

Mycroft flinched violently. A useless attempt to regain some kind of dignity, authority, aborted as soon as he realised, it was Gregory, standing beside him.

He didn’t look up, only felt the presence of the other man. Close by. Close enough, to just reach out and beg. But Mycroft didn’t dare to move. Didn’t dare to initiate contact. Didn’t even know how to greet the other man. Never before had he felt so lost, so utterly alone. Scared. Ashamed.

Gregory crouched to take a closer look. He looked tired, sad. Guilty. As he rose Mycroft saw the well kept case in his hand. Shivering, he followed Gregory’s movement with widened eyes. Gregory turned and stood still, head bowed, facing away from Mycroft.

A new kind of fear took hold of Mycroft. Why should Gregory want this, now? He had lost a friend. Sherlock, who probably had meant more to him than these encounters he had every now and then with Mycroft. Always on Mycroft’s requests. Always, when Mycroft needed the relief. Never -

“Sh,” Gregory whispered, not looking at Mycroft. His face was haggard with dark shadows under his eyes. The last days, maybe weeks had been trying for all of them. Which only had made the outcome even more disastrous. Gregory rubbed his hand over his face, then turned to look down at Mycroft.

“Let’s start with a cup of tea,” he said decisively. Holding out his hand, he added, “Mobile.”

Suddenly aware of how firmly he had been clutching the phone in his hand, Mycroft felt himself blush. His life line. It took a few moments before he was able to move his fingers, hand, arm. Pushing himself into a kneeling position, he handed Gregory the phone, his head bowed. Gregory took it, and put it away.

Without another word he moved over to the armchair by the window. His place. Routine. Like the phone. The tea. Slowly, Mycroft could feel his tense body unwinding. He scrambled gracelessly to his feet. His body was numb, making it difficult to walk elegantly. But Gregory wasn’t looking at him. With unseeing eyes, he was facing the window. The case was placed on the other side of the chair, out of sight.

Going through the usual pattern of tea making, Mycroft could feel the anxiety and stress diminish, however slowly. A few minutes later he returned to the bedroom, teapot and cup on a tray, which he placed on the small table beside the armchair. Preparing the tea exactly how Gregory used to take it, Mycroft then stepped back and knelt quietly a few feet away from the armchair, hands on the small of his back. He tried to calm himself by concentrating on the slightest movements from Gregory. Waiting.

Mycroft tried to keep from fidgeting. He knew how much Gregory hated it,  how much Mycroft himself hated people, who couldn’t wait patiently. His body tensed up again. Unable to keep his thoughts in check, the disdainful voices came back. Memories of a young Sherlock, clinging to his legs when he had to leave for boarding school. Their mother’s shocked look when Sherlock revealed his bonding with the Omega. Her accusing glare at Mycroft for not preventing it, for in fact having been the instigator. Mycroft caught between the need to help Sherlock, keeping him away from drugs and boredom, and upholding the family’s honour, traditions. If his parents had known what Mycroft really was like, what a deviant they had in their family, they would have -

“Oi!” Gregory’s voice brought Mycroft back to the present.

Unable to determine how to address Gregory, he just bowed his head deeper, straightening his back again.

Finally, Gregory put his cup down back on the tray. He had a plan, then. The anticipation made it harder to concentrate. The case beside the chair. Promising, but also unsettling. What if -

Gregory cleared his throat, frowning at Mycroft. Once more Mycroft tried to order his thoughts, keep control of them.

Gregory spread his legs a bit further, making room for Mycroft.

“Well, Baby,” Mycroft couldn’t hold back a small whimper. Yes, he thought, yes, Daddy. “You know, what Daddy likes.”

Gregory beckoned Mycroft, and he moved before he even knew what he was doing. Settling himself between the legs of Gregory, he looked expectantly, pleading, up at him.

“You want to be a good boy, won’t you, Baby?” Gregory looked at him with grave eyes.

“Yes, Daddy. Please,” Mycroft felt his worries fall away, the world narrowing in on this moment, this place. He wanted, he needed to be a good boy. He would do anything Daddy asked him to do.

“Go ahead then, Baby,” Daddy said softly.

Slowly, carefully Mycroft worked Daddy’s fly open. With tender fingers he pulled out a half hard cock of an impressive size. He could feel his mouth salivate. He loved sucking his Daddy’s dick. Never taking his eyes away from Daddy’s face, he started to lick at the hardening flesh, letting his tongue flick over the slit, feeling the pulsing of blood between his fingers.

He was rewarded with a contented moaning. Still watching Daddy intently, Mycroft became bolder, taking in the head, starting to suck the cock for good.

“Baby,” Daddy had to pause, groaning, “show your Daddy.”

He looked down at Mycroft, who obediently spread his legs, parting the dressing gown. Daddy wanted to watch him play with himself. One hand found its way to his prick, hard and heavy. When he touched himself, he closed his eyes, whimpering around the cock in his mouth. Daddy wouldn’t allow him to come. Not like this.

“Good boy,” his Daddy whispered, petting Mycroft’s hair. “That’s my Baby.”

Mycroft tried to swallow, gagging at first, but succeeding in his third or fourth attempt. Pleasing Daddy being the most important issue in his world right now. His throat cramped involuntary, and Daddy’s moans became louder, his hips pushing his cock further down Mycroft’s throat. Unable to breath, Mycroft tried to relax his muscles through the pushes, gasping for air whenever Daddy allowed him to.

“That’s it, Baby, such a good boy,” Daddy’s praise was like honey to Mycroft, who doubled his efforts, twisting his body to make sure Daddy would get a good look at Mycroft’s own swollen, leaking penis.

The movements became faster and more erratic, drawing Mycroft’s attention further into this one point in time, where nothing else mattered. His mind was peaceful now, only Daddy’s pleasure being important.

The cock in his mouth, down his throat, was setting a punishing speed, and two hands were now pulling Mycroft’s head down, pushing his mouth all the way to the base of the cock, nose tickling whenever it came close to the nest of black hair. The scent was heavy, musky, powerful, like the force with which his head was pushed down. One last breath, and Daddy held him still, cock all the way down his throat, pulsing, twitching, making him gag, leaving him breathless for what felt like hours. When he finally was pulled up, breathing, he cried out, squeezing his hand around his balls to stop himself from coming. Daddy wouldn’t like it and he wanted to be a good, a very good boy today.

One hand pulled Mycroft’s head backwards, and Daddy used his other hand to make sure his last squirts of come would be in his face. With a groan, Daddy emptied himself into Mycroft’s open mouth.

Letting himself fall back into the chair, arms now hanging limp by his side, his Daddy looked approvingly at Mycroft.

“Such a nice little fuck toy, aren’t you, Baby,” he said, while his face was lightening up in a warm smile, taking Mycroft’s face into his hand.

One finger trailed over Mycroft’s soiled face, collecting come, before being pushed in between his lips. He suckled bluntly, eyes half lidded, pupils blown wide. Two fingers followed, being shoved deep into his mouth. And Mycroft took, tasted, wanting to be filled, stuffed, unable to get enough. Wet noises, accompanied by moans and sighs filtered through his brain. When Daddy pulled his fingers back, Mycroft chased after them only to be stopped by fingers pulling his hair back.

“Eager, hm, Baby?” Daddy sounded pleased, and Mycroft could smell his renewed arousal.

“Strip and kneel on the bed, facing the headboard.”

This time Mycroft complied immediately and with grace. Sliding the dressing gown down on the floor he exposed his body for his Daddy to admire. And so he did. Indicating, Daddy had him turning around himself, showing his hard, flushed cock and a nice tight arse, before he was allowed to move to the bed.

Here he stopped, suddenly uncertain. His mind started to reel again. The Omega. The bed wasn’t cleaned. He hadn’t had time to change the linen. The smell from his earlier coupling, the bonding, was still heavy in the room, now that he was aware of the rumpled sheets in front of him. Panic. His body started trembling again.

“Baby,” the sharp note in Daddy’s voice made Mycroft flinch. “On the bed, now!”

Mycroft moved onto the bed and kneeled, the order comforting him. He heard the rustling of fabric, and determined that Daddy was taking the case with him to the bed. Mycroft’s breathing was speeding up. The Omega forgotten.

“Well, well, my little baby slut has already indulged himself today.”

Mycroft couldn’t, wouldn’t hide the shiver, Daddy’s tone of voice sent down his spine, his cock twitching, precome flowing freely, adding to the mess underneath him.

Daddy was standing next to the bed, leaning in closely to Mycroft’s left ear.

“Present yourself like a nice little Omega bitch in heat, Baby,” Daddy whispered, and Mycroft’s mind blanked out for a split second. “Start with one finger, and make sure I have a nice view.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched, realising that he wasn’t given any lube. Then his Daddy pushed his head and chest down on the soiled bed, before he moved behind Mycroft, spreading his knees and stroking Mycroft’s cleft, pressing his cheeks apart to probe at his hole with his fingers. Then he stepped back and sat down in the armchair once again, having a full view of Mycroft’s arse, his throbbing cock and balls, hanging heavily between his thighs.

The smell of the Omega, body fluids, pheromones, was maddening. Knowing Daddy was waiting, he turned his head, being able to breath and watch him, while his hands were working his arse cheeks apart. He started exploring his entrance with one finger, slowly working the muscles loose, pressing inwards, deeper and deeper.

“Two fingers.”

The stretch was unpleasant at first, felt wrong, but Daddy was watching, and he wanted to be a good boy. When he was working his third finger into his hole, his world had stopped spinning, his mind was sluggish, but wonderfully clear. Waiting for the next order, floating. Every praise from Daddy sent him deeper into this blissfully suspended state. Every order was received with a contented sigh, his reward the next order, leaving him an unthinking entity, used for pleasuring Daddy.

Mycroft couldn’t remember how many fingers, how long he had worked himself open. His mind was registering the next order, his hands on his back again, Daddy pressing his cock into him, pinning his head and chest down into the mattress, thrusting deep and fast, relentless. Mycroft was silent, lost in this mindless condition, serving. Pain, pleasure, the taste and smell of the Omega, of his own come and sweat, threatening to drown him. Daddy’s groans, his fingers digging into Mycroft’s hips, leaving marks for sure, the stretching of the muscles which tightened around Daddy’s large Alpha cock, ensuring a pleasurable friction. Mycroft was lost, falling, flying, being nothing and everything, all at once.

He felt Daddy’s thrusts getting faster, harder, the grip around his hips stronger, a cry as Daddy pulsed his come into him, buried deep inside of him. The orgasm was long, small jerks getting Daddy off again and again. Mycroft felt boneless, when Daddy finally pulled out, letting him slump down on his side, come dripping out of his sore hole.

Daddy went to the bathroom, returning a few minutes later, to find Mycroft in exactly the same spot as before. He hadn’t moved at all, still hanging on to the feeling of suspension. His own arousal hadn’t faltered. Daddy had a small, satisfied smirk on his face.

“On your back, Baby, hold on to the headboard with your hands, and spread your legs.”

Mycroft complied slowly. Daddy bent down and took his case, opening it and pulling out a black, very long, velvety pouch. It took far too long before Mycroft realised what Daddy was pulling out of the pouch. Daddy was watching him, waiting for his reaction. Surprisingly, Mycroft stayed calm. His Daddy would take care of him, and he knew that Daddy had wanted to do this for a long time now. Mycroft had used his safe word every single time. But not this time. This time he wanted to be a good boy. Daddy wouldn’t hurt him.

He licked his lips, pushed himself further up the bed, and looked expectantly at Daddy, who stroked Mycroft’s cock approvingly.

“Such a good boy,” Daddy praised, giving his cock a few hard strokes before opening a small bottle of lube and dripping some of it on Mycroft’s slit. It was cold, and Mycroft watched breathlessly while Daddy opened the pouch and took out one of the sounds inside of it. It was long, bending a little, rounded at the tip. Daddy watched him intently, waiting for the small nod, Mycroft gave. Then he sterilised the device carefully. Covering a part of it in lube, he took hold of Mycroft’s twitching prick.

Slowly, Daddy worked the sound over Mycroft’s slit. Mycroft whimpered. This was what his Daddy wanted. He was his now. Daddy would use his body as he liked. A wave of deep acceptance washed over Mycroft. Every sign of tension disappeared from his features.

“That’s it, Baby,” Daddy’s voice was soothing, appraising.

Mycroft’s cock was hard, dark red against his pale skin. Daddy held it in a firm grip when he started to insert the sound. Carefully, he made sure the slit was well lubed. Then it was inside of Mycroft, slowly being pushed down. Daddy’s concentration turned into admiration, when the sound was buried deep inside the penis, Daddy pushing it in all the way to watch it, fascinated, being pushed back out.

The body on the bed could be anyone’s. Mycroft was losing himself, his body being used, controlled by someone else. He watched Daddy, watched himself lying naked. Nothing mattered but the pleasure his body could give Daddy. He could see tears flowing from his own eyes, could hear Daddy soothing him, pushing him further and further into the whiteness of his mind, the blankness of relief and peace. Floating. Limbless.

 

 

He gasped when Daddy pulled the sound back out. When he was manhandled back on his hands and knees, once more presenting for Daddy. Groaned, when Daddy pushed in, into his still sore, wet hole. Whimpered, when he felt strong fingers around his cock, a hand cupping his balls tenderly. Cried out when Daddy told him to come, finally, spurting semen on the sheets beneath him, feeling Daddy still, tensing, grunting, when he followed after.

Mycroft slumped down, too exhausted to mind the mess, too contented to care. Daddy laid down beside him, still clothed, his flagging penis nudged between Mycroft’s cheeks. Small kisses pressed against his neck, then a hand, gently turning his head, lips pressed against his, forcing his mouth open, being invaded, taken. Satisfied, Daddy let out a small sigh, before releasing him.

Mycroft would have wanted to stay like this eternally, but the buzzing sound of a mobile eventually brought him back to an unwanted reality.

Gregory pressed one last kiss to Mycroft’s temple, before he got up and put his clothes back in order. A futile attempt, his suit had already been wrinkled and dirty before he arrived at Mycroft’s place.

“Get into the shower, while I sort things out,” Gregory told him, turning his attention to both their mobiles, scrolling through what looked like several text messages.

Still a bit dazed, Mycroft retreated to the shower, slowly letting the demands of his life seep back into his mind. He took his time, knowing that this would be one last reprieve before he had to take care of his nephews and nieces, his brother’s Omega - his Omega now. When he left the bathroom, meticulously dressed, his thoughts were organised, his actions planned out. He was once again ready to face life, to take control.

Gregory turned towards him, eyes still sad, still tired, but confident. He, too, would be able to meet the world once again, to take charge, and bring this messy business to an end.

“John has fallen into the coma. They have just arrived at the hospital.”


	3. The Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Self-Harm.

Resentment. Paired with the undeniable, terrifying feeling of an increasing affection. Mycroft had done what had been supposed of him. Stayed at the bedside of the Omega, since he had arrived at the hospital.  What he had expected to be a short visit had turned into a vigil. Even worse, he found it harder and harder to just leave the room and attend to his own most basic needs.

It had been building inside of him for the past three days. Turning from the Omega inwards, on himself. The loathing. He needed release. Fought the thoughts, tried to keep the upper hand. Control. Being able to control his own body and mind. Giving over this control to someone else, every once in a while, to give himself a reprieve, a free space. If only for an hour or two. He needed it. Now. But he couldn't ask Lestrade. Couldn't get away from the hospital.

Not, when his assistants had proved themselves worthy of their wages. They had kept the department running, kept him updated, rescheduling, planning and changing plans, when necessary. They had kept him free of worries, only to let him worry even more. Dealing with foreign countries, diplomatic crisis, even a civil war would have been easier to handle than this. Trying to keep Sherlock's bondmate alive. Trying to save the remaining parent of his nephews and nieces. He didn't pretend anymore. The bond between him and the Omega had become strong. Only to taunt him even more. There were times when all he wanted to do was to crawl into the bed and lie beside the man. Hold him tight, caress him, speak to him with a soft voice, trying to get him back to the living. It was disgusting.

He shuddered. He needed to fix himself. Now. Needed to take back control over this situation, no matter how sickening and deviant he had to act. He despised himself as it was. One more perversion to wrestle down the worst emotional cravings would make no difference. But it would give him the much needed calmness of body and mind. The coolness that would enable him to think and act free of emotions.

One last touch, almost a fondling of the hand, before Mycroft left the room silently. He knew his way around in the corridors. The night shift had their regular rounds, and he would be able to stay away for about half an hour without raising any alarms. More than ample time.

He found one of the larger bathrooms, placed in a quiet corner on the second floor. Not too far away from the Omega's room. Not only would Mycroft's own distress increase the further he was away, the Omega's heart rate would rise and alert the staff.  Better not take any chances.

He closed and locked the door. Meticulously, he took off his clothes and placed them neatly on the lid of the toilet. Then he took his ever-present umbrella and unscrewed the handle, pulling out a handmade flogger. A delicately crafted cat of nine tails flogger, designed to cause pain, to hurt, cut into his flesh. Deep.

He had only ever used once. More as an experiment than out of any necessity. The few wounds from back then had turned into scars long ago. And Lestrade had been furious with him. But Lestrade wasn't here. And he needed control, needed to be grounded somehow. The pain would be perfect.

He kneeled almost reverently in the middle of the tiled floor. Leaving enough space around him for the tails to fly freely in the air. Drawing a deep breath, trying to focus. He couldn't. Even now, his was unable to control his thoughts, his mind. The first lash was born out of this frustration. He just put as much force into it as he could muster. And was unable to suppress the scream when his flesh broke under the metal tails. The pain was incredible. His mouth open, panting, his mind just stopped. Empty. Except for the pain. Glorious in its viciousness. Overwhelming. Cleansing.

After a few minutes, he took a deep breath and started the lashing. Methodically, rhythmic. Pausing after every hit. Breathing. Indulging. Then the next hit. The pain turned into a mind numbing feeling, pushing thoughts aside, even drowning out the pull of the bond. Bliss. Peace.

The sound of the tails hitting his back turned into a wet noise. He could feel liquid pooling on his back, dripping slowly down his spine, his thighs, his left arm. Breathing was turning into a labour. Lifting his right arm to perform the next lashing became a matter of pure will. His muscles screamed at him, but he pushed himself further into oblivion. Into the white fog that was turning his thoughts, his mind into nothingness. He was floating. The sounds of the beating keeping him under, keeping his mind blank, his body numbed. And he continued. Having lost track of time. Not heeding the loud banging on the door, the voices outside, far away from his serene state of mind. He was in control.

The door broke down. People, talking, shouting. Hands trying to stop him. No! Don't touch. Don't. Stay away. Concentrate. Focus! Control. He was sobbing. The floor under him covered in blood. Then everything turned black.

 

The sound returned first. Beeping machines. No pain. Instead a steady pull from the bond. Growing. He was lying on his stomach. An almost wicked smile showed on his downturned face. One turn of his body and the pain would explode once more. Would pull him under again. Keeping his mind free. His body occupied. Away from a hurting, he couldn't control, away from emotions he wasn't prepared to face.

His vision was blocked by a man now standing right beside his bed. He tried to turn a little, indulging in the resulting spasms in his muscles. His back felt numbed, he thought disappointed. Maybe he would be able to convince the doctors to stop with the painkillers.

The next thing he registered was the hand, cruelly pulling his head back up by his hair. He was facing Lestrade. A very angry Lestrade, by the look on his face and the hand, holding on to his scalp. He lowered his eyes.

"Look at me," Lestrade demanded. Mycroft closed his eyes. Wished himself back to the bathroom floor.

"Baby!"

Oh God, yes. Please. Please, Daddy. Take over. Take control. His eyes were wet, when he finally opened them, and looked at his Daddy.

Lestrade looked back at him. Watched the tear rolling down Mycroft's cheek. A thumb caressed his face and Mycroft leaned into the touch hungrily. Carefully, Lestrade lowered Mycroft's head back onto the cushions.

They were alone in the room. Mycroft wondered, how far away the Omega might be. The bond was pulling, but not in that heavy, desperate way of before. More like a promise. A welcoming.

Confused, he looked at Lestrade. His Daddy was concerned. Worried.

"Why didn't you call me, Baby?" His voice was soft. And Mycroft couldn't hold back the tears. He started babbling. The words just pouring out of him, unchecked, tumbling all over the place, partly unintelligible. Daddy held him, stroked his hair, murmured encouragingly. He continued to pet him, until he fell asleep.

He had a dreamless night. The first in a very long time. The last for a long time to come.

 

He came awake slowly. The beeping machines were gone, and so was Lestrade. He sighed and turned slowly on his back, savouring the stinging pain. The bond was spreading an unknown warmth through his body, grounding him in the here and now. He couldn't remember if he ever had felt so content and relaxed, at peace with himself and the world around him.

"You can feel it, can't you?" The voice was low, but clear. The Omega was standing by the window, his back turned to Mycroft.

Mycroft had managed to bid back a startled cry, taken by surprise. The bond was strong now, emotions flitting between the two bondmates, apparently without effort. He could feel the Omega's anger, fatigue. How long had Mycroft been asleep?

"Your little stunt brought me back. The strain on the bond was like an electric shock. If you had tried that a few days earlier, it would have killed me for good. Now, the bond was strong enough to wake me."

Mycroft could hear the bitterness.

"I'm sorry," he ventured, unsure. He wanted to assure the Omega, once again taken back by these new emotions. Feelings so strong, familiar in a strange way.

The Omega huffed. They fell silent for a while. Outside the sun was shining. The bond was pulsating between the two. Mycroft tried to parse the information coming across the invisible connection between the two men in the room. The Omega hadn't moved. Too late, Mycroft realised that it worked both ways. His state of mind, his confusion was transmitted to the Omega, without any filters. The possessiveness, he felt, the feeling of ownership he meant to have acquired when he bid the Omega. All of that was relayed to the figure at the window. Mycroft had been raised to be the Alpha of the household. He had rights that transcended those of his brother. For generations, attitudes and rituals had been honed, to ensure those rights, to create a certain mind-set. A mind-set, any normal Omega would submit to, no questions asked, no discussions needed. But this wasn't a normal Omega. This was his brother's Omega. A man, who had survived the brutal severing of his first bond while being pregnant with his first child, the result of an atrocious experiment. An Omega, who had studied to become a doctor. Fighting his way through university and the close-minded society around him, achieving recognition as one of the foremost experts on Omega health and bonding psychology. And now, this man had survived a second breaking of a bond, a bond, which by all means had been stronger, had meant the world to him. Broken, when he had to watch his bondmate throw himself of the roof of St.Barts.

Mycroft gasped. Tried to suppress the memory of that day. His actions after he had gotten the phone message, had found the Omega.

"Going down memory lane, are we?" The Omega's tone of voice had changed. From bitterness into something dangerous, almost malicious? Mycroft still felt the bond, reassuringly pulsing through his body and mind. But something else was taking over. Slowly, inevitably.

Emptiness. Mycroft watched the unmoving shadow at the window, terrified.

"That's how it feels. Times one hundred. When a bond is breaking, right in front of your eyes. When you can see your bondmate throw his life away, because his loving, caring brother put ambitions above anything else!" The last words were said with a sneer, spat out.

"John," Mycroft swallowed, unable to find the simplest of words. "What are you doing? What is happening?"

The emptiness inside of him was almost complete, the bond a mere ghost, vanished when the bleakness took over.

"I'm closing the bond. Takes years of practice, and believe me, I've had more than ample time to practice this. I can live with this pain. Had to, before your brother came. I can do it again. Trust me. You won't have to bother with me or the bond." The Omega's shadow was getting darker. Or so it seemed. Mycroft hardly knew how to keep breathing. The emptiness was excruciating. As if all feelings had been replaced with a void, swallowing him.

"The doctors told me, you would be fine. We had found you in good time. The blood transfusions helped, and I guess your little meeting with Lestrade helped as well." The disdain in his voice was humiliating. Even worse was the thought of the Omega finding him. He had believed it was Lestrade, rescuing him from himself.

"No, Lestrade came as soon as I texted him," the Omega answered his thoughts, unnerving Mycroft even more. "As I said. It woke me up, which alerted the doctors. And I knew something had to be screwed to cause this reaction through the bond."

Finally, the Omega turned around. His look was almost pityingly.

"I will continue my work for now. Staying at Baker Street. Taking care of the kids. You may visit. And they can visit you and the family. But don't," the Omega approached the bed, looming over Mycroft. "Don't ever try to get close to me again. If need be, I'll send for you. On my terms."

With that, the Omega turned around and left the room.

Mycroft closed his eyes and let the emptiness swallow him up.

 

Two days later, he could leave the hospital. By pulling various strings and intimidating several of the doctors and nurses, he was able to avoid further scrutiny, as well as a visit by a therapist. His assistants came by, with new schedules, taking his presence at the office into account once more. Lestrade visited a single time, but kept his distance. Something had changed between them. Mycroft was too horrified to ask, let alone talk about what had happened. He found the void inside of him enabling. His thoughts weren't clouded by emotions any longer. He could concentrate. Lying out plans for the future of his nieces and nephews. Not that he could control them. The Omega had made that much clear. Mycroft was grateful that he hadn't been cut out for good. Adjusting to the emptiness inside of him, he turned his focus on what family he had left.

The funeral had been a show for the media, as well as friends and criminals wanting their share of excitement. The Omega had behaved exceedingly well, as had the children.

Several weeks had passed since the incidents at the hospital. The Omega had kept his promise, letting his children decide for themselves if they wanted to meet with their uncle. Mycroft's back had healed, his scars still very visible, as he had proof of every morning, when he found himself between two mirrors, making it possible for him to see, even feel them by letting a finger glide almost respectfully over one or the other.

Everything was falling into a kind of new normal. Mycroft was again attending his club evenings. Even had a single encounter, though unsatisfactorily, with Lestrade. Things had definitely changed between them.

And then, one evening at the Diogenes, Mycroft was celebrating a small diplomatic victory concerning some North Korean weapon transports, when he received a text. Without thinking, he swiped the screen, going straight for the message itself. And caused a minor commotion when he dropped his drink on the floor.

Need help. Send money. -SH


End file.
